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Trust is her shaking form in another's hands, long, gangly fingers holding her shoulders as she stares in horror at the mess she made. The rifle slips from her hands, the host lies dead on the ground.
She told him never to talk to her like that again.
Trust is letting her close the door behind her, tutting quietly as she inspects the gore. She closes her eyes, tries not to think about the blood that splattered onto her face.
“All sick of that guy, worried was you,” her words are clipped, her Russian is choppy. But she knows what she means. “But, I don’t think supposed to happen yet. Oh well,” she talks out loud to herself, squatting down to his body on the floor. She’s so blasé about it, and she should be, she’s obviously not human. But just that morning, she had sat with her in the living room, the conversation so mundane.
"Not much of a talker, hm?" she had teased, leaning her head against the shelf. The visitor shrugged, mimicking her.
"What talk about? Hot outside, miserable in. What you want?"
"I guess… connection. To know you, everyone, anyone. Keeps a girl sane."
"And alive," she doesn’t know it, but the other woman is thinking about the noises she hears at night coming from the hermit's bedroom, things she hears better than the others. The seductive woman gives a sardonic smile, eyes crinkling.
"And alive. So, I'll ask again; why are you sticking around here? Just easier?" Her face softens as she studies her conversation partner.
"What else to do? I stay outside and wander around? Get shot by men in suits? No, comfy here, comfy for kitty."
"He yours?"
"Was asked to bring kitty here, job done." The redhead raises an eyebrow at that, smiling like she's about to laugh.
"Someone asked you to bring that cat here?"
"Yes."
"Who would ask that, huh?"
"Some baldy," she quips, and the seductive woman actually laughs this time, slapping the palm of her hand over her mouth. The way she speaks is so blunt, and she doesn't think it's just because of the language barrier. The cat lady’s smile widens a tad, eyes crinkling. The human’s laugh is louder than she thought, her soft, seductive tone replaced by a genuine bark of joy.
"Baldy, huh? Poor thing, probably can't help it," she tries to sound sweet, empathetic, but her breath hitching gives away just how funny she thinks it is.
"It true, bald as baby bottom. Shiny head, too," that gets another giggle from her, who puts a hand on the other’s shoulder.
"Oh, you're funny. I'm glad they sent you."
Now that they’re there, the homeowner’s head blown off, she’s glad it’s her.
Trust is turning her back to the cat lady, shaky hand reaching for the door handle.
“I-I need to wash up. Can you… you can take care-take care of that, yeah?” she tries to sound cool, tries to act like this doesn’t bother her at all.
She had a feeling something like this would happen. She just didn’t realize she would be on this end.
“Go, go. I get sad man to help,” the cat lady shoos her towards the door with one hand, another reaching down to tear through the hermit’s clothes. She can’t see it, but the seductive woman hears the rip of fabric.
Trust is the mutual agreement that one will not run and tell on the other. No humans need know about this - no other than her, who stands under the man’s shower, stray blood and viscera swirling down the drain.
She hadn’t meant to kill him, but she had. The look he gave her that morning, telling her she must have been pregnant, telling her she was fucking with him. He had blown someone else’s head off that day as well, sound echoing through the house as she sat and giggled with the woman now doing God knows what to his corpse. In that moment, when the whole building went quiet, she wanted to ask the for sure visitor if he was right, but was afraid. When she had returned to his bedroom that night, he stood in the middle of the room motionless, eyes cast to the floor. She wondered if he expected her to coo at him like she had those first few nights; tell him how hard he worked, how the stress was getting to him. He blabbered something about the cat lady, how it should have been her but he wasn't sure what the prophet wanted. She was already inching away from the door, slinking into the room when he started swearing at her, begging her ‘not to lie again’.
Trust was him thinking a pretty thing like her wouldn’t grab his rifle off the wall by the door, blowing his brains all over the place.
Trust is returning to the bedroom after the water runs cold down her back. She throws her clothes in his washer, wraps herself in one of his towels. Her hair is damp, her wet feet plod along the floor. The cat her new companion brought with her rolls about before her, seemingly unbothered by the chaos that has transpired today. She could hear whispering coming from other rooms in the hallways. She wondered what they knew, what they thought.
When she opens the door, she's surprised at how… thorough, it is. The bed has been stripped, the body removed. There are stains on the floor, and you can still smell the smoke of the barrel which she doesn't know where her - friend? confidant? - has put it.
The towel falls to the floor, and she goes to the closet, opening drawers and reaching on top of shelves for spare bedding. She doesn't trust anyone else to sleep in another room. Not tonight.
She finishes making the bed, the towel is discarded somewhere on the floor over one of the many blood stains. The door opens and closes behind her, and she knows who it is. She doesn't turn around, simply crawls onto the bed, and turns the lamp off.
Trust is curling up on the spare sheets, closing her eyes and taking a deep inhale. She feels the bed springs jostle, and doesn't move. She hears the hesitation, and doesn't go to stop her. The ruffling and shuffling of fabric tells her she's still here, and when the thin sheet is lifted, she feels cool, smooth skin that feels more animal than human pressed against her back. It's heavenly against her own, hot with shame.
One arm wraps about her body, thin hand covered in scratches resting on her breast. She takes that hand, presses it to her mouth, and ignores the blood crusted under the fingernails, red to match her own painted ones.